A Scrambled Mess
by highlandgypsy
Summary: The 214's scrambler is broken. This was written for a group challenge to incorporate the phrase "That's not how it works! That's not how any of it works!" in a scene or short story. Enjoy a merry romp through a day with the Black Sheep and their girls.


I wrote this for an online group challenge - we had to use the phrase "That's not how it works. That's not how any of it works." This episode is set in the context of "Front Page News." When I started it, I had NO idea where it was going, so the title, "A Scrambled Mess," is not only a reflection of the overall theme – the 214's scrambler is broken – but the way the story is delivered as well.

It's not deep literature – it's a light-hearted romp through a day in Black Sheep territory with a very 21st century ending. And there's a sneak peak at the next couple I'm considering for a fan fiction story.

Thank you, DH, for the idea – which is a whole lot more fun in this context than what I think you originally meant when you said it - and LMS for challenging us to write it. I may have gotten carried away. Who knew how many different applications that phrase could have!

 **A SCRAMBLED MESS**

 **Vella La Cava, VMF 214 HQ**

 **0900**

"Boyington!"

USMC Major Greg Boyington held the receiver at arm's length and grimaced. In another part of the war, his commanding officer was not happy. Greg doubted it would matter what part of the war Colonel Thomas Lard was in, he wouldn't be happy anywhere if the Black Sheep were involved.

"I thought I told you to get that scrambler fixed weeks ago."

"Yes, sir, you did." Greg rolled his eyes. Some days it was easier to do battle with the Japanese than deal with Lard.

"Then why haven't you done it? This is an open line – I can't talk to you about missions on an open line. And what's that noise? Do I hear a woman laughing? What's a woman doing in your communications shack?"

Greg turned and raised his eyebrows at the young woman with sun-streaked hair perched atop a nearby desk. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt with a hole in the midriff, swinging long, shapely legs in idle amusement. A worn notebook and slightly battered Nikon camera sat on the desktop next to her. Greg had no intention of telling Lard what she was doing.

Kate "K.C." Cameron, the Associated Press correspondent embedded with the 214, clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. Colonel Lard knew she was there – he'd assigned her in the mistaken hope that being held accountable by press scrutiny would make Greg and the rest of the renegade Black Sheep tow the mark. Due to a set of fortuitous circumstances, Lard had no idea K.C. Cameron was not a man. No one had seen fit to tell him otherwise.

"Just one of the nurses passing through, sir." Greg lied through his teeth.

"You have more nurses passing through that base than McArthur has tanks," Lard grumbled.

"Since we can't talk about missions, what else can I help you with, Colonel? I'm sure you didn't call to chat about nurses."

"It's Cameron! He's done it again! Are you paying any attention to his work?"

Greg was, in fact, paying a great deal of attention to Kate's work. They'd woken up together on the beach that morning and he found her work exemplary.

"I'm not sure what the problem is, sir. Cameron seems to be taking this assignment very seriously. I'd say his coverage is, um, quite thorough."

"But he's making you guys look good!" Lard roared.

"We are good, sir." Greg's smug tone sent Kate into another paroxysm of laughter. She clenched the edge of the desk to keep from toppling off.

It was more than Lard could take.

"I'll deal with Cameron later. Just get your damned scrambler fixed." He rang off. Greg hung up the receiver and looked at Kate and Lieutenant Bobby Anderson, who was loitering in the doorway.

"Anderson, go find Casey and tell him we'd better get this scrambler fixed before Lard starts showing up in person to bitch at me. Casey's the only one who knows how to put it back together."

Anderson slouched out of the shack. Greg turned to Kate.

"What are you laughing at?" The sparkle in his eyes belied his stern tone. "You think it's funny when I get my butt chewed, don't you?"

"Come here." Kate slanted him a look from under dark lashes. That half-innocent, half-come-hither air was just one of the things Greg loved about her. She was the light that kept him on an even keel in the madness of this war. He crossed the room in two strides and planted his hands, palms down, on the desk on either side of her thighs. She rested her hands on his waist.

"Your butt has never been better." One hand slid down to caress his hip and her touch put his mind on a track that had nothing to do with scramblers or Colonel Lard. He bent his face toward hers, close enough to see the pale dusting of freckles across her cheekbones. In response, she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer. Both of her hands were on his hips now. Not that he was complaining.

"Mmm, you're starting something, Cameron. It's 0900. In the com shack. With a superior officer. Where do you think this is going?"

"Don't try pulling rank on me, Boyington. I'm press corps, I'm not under your command, remember? And it's not going anywhere. This is just a small token of my affection." She squeezed one hip firmly. He groaned.

"That's not how it works," he murmured, sliding his hands along her outer thighs. His mouth brushed over hers and he felt her body respond with a hot thrill of arousal. "That's not how any of it works. You started it, you finish it."

The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding over hers.

"Just how does it work?" she whispered. "Show me."

 **XXX**

In his office on Espritos Marcos, Colonel Lard glared at the radio receiver. He glared out the window at the cloudless tropical sky. He glared at the newspaper on his desk. The 72-point banner headline screamed "Black Sheep of VMF 214: Terrors of the Southwest Pacific." He turned the paper upside down so he didn't have to look at it any more. He'd read the story three times and it got worse each time. The worst thing about it was that all of it was true.

He'd assigned Cameron to the 214 on the theory that constant press coverage would force Boyington to adhere to something resembling correct Marine Corps protocol. It had apparently been a futile hope. The unit was indeed the terror of the Southwest Pacific. They were also a bunch of brawling, drinking hooligans with absolutely no respect for regulations. He was still dealing with a stack of complaints from the last time the unit had been on leave on Espritos. A brawl in the officers' club. Assault on Navy personnel. A stolen jeep. Harassment of female personnel, military and civilian alike. It was classic Black Sheep. And it never stopped.

"That's not how it works. That's not how any of it works," he muttered, reaching for an antacid. If they didn't fix that scrambler, he'd have to fly over there and deal with Boyington and Cameron in person. That was the last thing he wanted to do.

 **XXX**

"Oh for the love of God, Greg! It's 9 o'clock in the morning!" Lieutenant Larry Casey exclaimed. His voice was was a mix of embarrassment and amusement.

Kate opened her eyes without taking her mouth from Greg's. Over his shoulder, Casey and Anderson stood awkwardly in the door of the com shack. Reluctantly, she broke off the kiss, burying her face in Greg's neck.

"You'll have to show me later," she whispered and willed her heart to stop pounding. It wasn't like the boys didn't know they were sleeping together but she still preferred not to advertise the physical side of their relationship. A girl liked to keep some things private and God knew that was no easy task around here.

"Anderson said you needed assistance," Casey said, grinning now.

"It doesn't look like he needs much assistance to me, Lawrence," Anderson observed.

"I don't need your smart mouth either." Greg glared at both men. "Can you fix this damn thing?" He gestured at the scrambler. It sat next to the desk, its front panel hanging forlornly, its interior bearing a resemblance to a field-dressed carcass. A number of internal components had been dumped unceremoniously into a metal box nearby.

"Are you sure you want me to do that?" Casey looked dubious. "That means Lard can call any time of the day or night and we'll need to keep someone in here on duty. Like we're supposed to."

Greg grimaced.

"If we don't fix it, that means Lard is going to start showing up here in person. Would you rather deal with him face to face or get your beauty sleep interrupted once in a while?"

"Since you put it that way . . ." Casey muttered. He studied the scrambler and sighed. "All right then. Where's the tool box?"

 **XXX**

 **1300 hours**

Casey tightened the last screw holding the front panel in place and sat back on his heels. He wiped sweat off his brow.

"That should do it. Try it now."

"That's what you said the last two times." Anderson looked skeptical. It had been a long, hot afternoon and nothing in the boys' backgrounds – from college through flight school – had prepared them for the contrary obstinance of military-issue electronics.

"Third time's charmed. This time I followed the wiring diagram in the manual."

"Since when do we do anything around here by the manual?" Anderson grinned.

"Just turn it on and see what happens." Casey leaned back against the wall.

At the nearby desk, Anderson flipped a switch on the console. Nothing happened at first, then the unit powered up with a satisfactory hum. Casey sighed with relief. The hum grew louder. The unit started to vibrate. A puff of smoke shot out of a side vent.

"Turn it off! Turn it off now!" Casey yelled. Anderson dove for the controls and slammed the toggle to the off position just as the unit let out a resounding bang. The front service panel flew open with a clang and several loose screws shot across the floor.

John "Hutch" Hutchinson, the unit's chief mechanic, sauntered in, hands shoved in grease-stained fatigues that rode low on his hips. He surveyed the scrambler, which gave a dying rattle before it fell silent. A wisp of smoke rose toward the rafters like a departing spirit.

"I think you got a problem there," he said.

"Really?" Casey said sourly, climbing to his feet.

"First thing my daddy taught me about fixing things," Hutch said, picking up a small glass tube from under the corner of the desk, "was that you shouldn't have parts left over when you're done."

He handed the tube to Casey who took it and groaned. The tow-headed pilot waved a hand in front of his face to clear the smoke. He held the piece at arm's length, trying to visualize where it belonged. It was like putting a jigsaw puzzle together when half the pieces were missing and other half were on fire.

"I just spent four hours on this thing!" he grumbled. "That's not how it works! That's not how any of it works."

"Obviously it doesn't work," Hutch said. "Now you know how I feel when you boys bring your birds back shot full of holes every day. Or with parts blown off. Or spraying oil. Or on fire. Or - ." Casey and Anderson glared at him. He looked at the still-smoking console. "Let me know if you want help with that. Otherwise, I got a date tonight." He turned and sauntered out, whistling Glenn Miller's "Tuxedo Junction."

"Date? Since when does he have a date? He doesn't have time to date." Anderson watched Hutch leave suspiciously. "You don't think . . . what was her name . . .?"

"I don't have time to think." Casey gathered up the loose screws and with a resigned sigh, sat back down in front of the scrambler. "Help me with this or neither of us are gonna see our girls tonight. Pappy'll keep us in here until it works or it kills us. I think I know which might come first."

 **XXX**

 **2000 hours**

The Sheep Pen was alight with music and revelry as the boys of the 214 put the war temporarily out of their mind.

Bobby Boyle cast a disgruntled look over his shoulder and slumped into a chair.

"What's the problem, buddy?" TJ Wiley pushed a beer across the table at him.

"Do you know how many times I've been shot down tonight? I'm getting a complex. Hell, at this rate I'll be afraid to get in my plane tomorrow." He surveyed the crowd. Pilots and nurses were dancing, drinking and flirting.

"Don't take it personally," TJ said. "The night is young. I'm sure one of these ladies will appreciate your finer qualities." He paused, grinning. "If they drink enough."

"Yeah. Thanks." Boyle nursed his beer in moody silence.

The door to the building swung open and the boys looked up to see Hutch enter the room with a tall strawberry blonde on his arm. The mechanic, an inveterate grease monkey, was scrubbed clean and in uniform, his dark good looks complementing the girl's golden elegance. She was wearing a stylishly cut floral print civilian dress and her bobbed hair sparkled with red-gold highlights. Boyle recognized her as one of the recent additions to the hospital's nursing staff. When the new girls had gotten off the transport last week, he remembered the guys' football game stopping so they could check out the new crop of arrivals. Damn. He really should have invented a reason to go to the hospital before now.

"Oh hell to the no," he muttered. "What's she doing with him? _We're_ the pilots, _we're_ supposed to be the ones the nurses can't keep their hands off of, not the mechanics. No, no, no! That's not how it works. That's not how any of it works!"

 **XXX**

Kate saw Lieutenants Dee Ryan and Ellen Morgan of the Navy Nursing Corps enter the Sheep Pen unescorted by their boys. She waved in greeting.

"Where are the guys?" Dee scanned the room. The Saturday night social gathering was in full swing but her steady, Larry Casey, wasn't anywhere to be seen. Likewise Ellen couldn't find Bobby Anderson.

"Greg's got them both on a mission, fixing the scrambler," Kate said, turning from the bar with a tray of drinks. "They've been at it half the day, they should be done any time now. Come over and sit with us." She grabbed two more glasses and tipped her head toward a table where Greg was sitting with Jim Gutterman.

"We don't want to be a third wheel." Dee said.

Kate snorted.

"Don't you see Jim?" She winked at Dee. "If Greg and I want to be alone, trust me, you won't find us."

"I remember how long it took that man to get you to go to the beach with him," Dee teased as they followed her across the room. "Now you're a regular there."

"Just like you and Casey," Kate said. She set the tray on the table. "Dee and Ellen are joining us," she announced.

"Ladies," Greg acknowledged, lifting his whisky tumbler. Jim patted the chairs on either side of him, a broad grin on his face as the two nurses settled into them. They rolled their eyes. Few things were sacred with the Black Sheep but putting the moves on another guy's girl was a good way to get bent teeth and Jim knew it. That wouldn't stop his wholescale teasing and flirting though. He'd enjoy the girls' company until Casey and Anderson showed up to re-claim their territory.

"Who's that with Hutch?" Greg poured out whisky and handed the glasses around.

"That's Victoria –" Dee began.

"Since when does Hutch have time to chase nurses?" Jim interrupted. "Isn't that our job?"

"I don't think he's had to chase this one very far," Ellen said. "She's a real sweetheart. They're both from Michigan. She told me her daddy works for Ford Motor Company in Detroit. Isn't Hutch from Flint? I'm sure they have tons in common."

Dee shot her a look.

"They have nothing in common, trust me."

"Doesn't seem to be stopping them," Kate mused. She watched as Hutch and his date joined the couples on the dance floor. "That isn't always how it works. You don't have to have things in common to enjoy someone else's company." She smiled at Greg.

"Truth is stranger than fiction," he said, then looked at his watch.

"Where the hell are Casey and Anderson? I figured they'd be done with that scrambler by now." He finished his drink and set down the glass. "I'd better go see if they've blown themselves up. You coming with me, Cameron?"

"Wouldn't miss it." Kate rose. "You always know how to show a girl a good time."

"Tell the boys we've started a bar tab in their names and we're buying rounds for the house," Ellen called cheerfully as they left. "That'll get them back here in a hurry."

 **XXX**

In the com shack, things were going from bad to worse.

"Give me the 3/8ths wrench," Casey said. He held out his hand without taking his eyes off the tangle of wiring in front of him. He had a screwdriver jammed under a recalcitrant bolt to hold it in place. If he let go, the whole works would slide into a mess of spaghetti noodle wiring but he was pretty sure that bolt and it's accompanying loose connection were the source of the continued malfunction. If he could just get it tightened before everything else fell apart, the interior circuitry would once again be whole. He was starting to think dealing with Colonel Lard in person would have been easier than getting this thing running again.

"I would not advise that," Anderson said from his perch on a nearby chair. He lit a cigarette. "You've got an open circuit there, if you touch that end with metal, it's going to arc and –

"Shut up and give me the wrench. Dee's waiting for me at the Sheep Pen and I'm not going to spend all night with this damned thing."

"You're right," Anderson said agreeably. "You're going to spend it in the hospital if you stick a wrench in there." He handed Casey the wrench anyway and stepped back.

"It's turned off, there's no power access. All I need to do is – " The minute Casey touched the tip of the wrench to the bolt, a flash of electricity arced through the air with a sizzle. Casey yelped and threw himself backwards.

"Lawrence! Are you all right? Although I did warn you - "

Casey picked himself up off the floor.

"Yeah. Fine. Just a little singed."

Anderson bent and inspected the scrambler's inner workings.

"Congratulations, I think you've just soldered that bolt in there permanently."

"Okay, try it again."

"Are you sure?"

"Greg's going to kill us if we don't get this thing fixed and Lard has to come over here in person."

"This thing may kill us first and then we won't have to worry about Lard."

"Just do it," Casey said resignedly.

Anderson set down his cigarette. Cautiously, he flipped the switch and took a hasty step back from the scrambler. The equipment roared to life with all the fury of an infantry charge.

 **XXX**

Greg and Kate walked slowly from the Sheep Pen toward the com shack, enjoying the tropical evening and each other's company. Kate was only mildly surprised to see two figures in the shadows ahead of them, strolling side by side with fingers interlaced. They walked with the easy aimlessness that spoke of having no particular destination except to be where other people weren't.

"Hey, kids," Greg teased, "don't stay out too late."

Hutch looked over his shoulder. The girl flashed a sparkling smile, color rising in her cheeks.

"Hey, Pappy, Katie. I'd tell you the same but I doubt – "

The silence was broken by a loud squawk and Casey's voice yelling, "Turn it off! Turn it off! Get the fire extinguisher!"

All four of them bolted for the com shack. The men got there first and charged through the door, with Kate and Victoria bringing up the rear. The scene was total chaos. Anderson was wielding a fire extinguisher while Casey stomped at flaming papers drifting along the floor. A cloud of sodium bicarbonate fogged around his knees. The display on the front of the scrambler was a Christmas tree of flashing red, green and yellow lights while needles spun erratically and the whole thing emitted an escalating cacophony of electronic wails.

"What the hell? I told you to fix that thing, not burn the place down!" Greg's tone was incredulous.

"You boys seem to have a right problem with fire," Hutch said, not even trying to hide a smile. "I remember both of you landing in flames this morning. Maybe your girls are looking for a hot time tonight but I'd bet this isn't what they have in mind."

"John!" Victoria looked shocked, but she was laughing, too.

"The scrambler's fine," Casey began. "Well, it's not fine. But it didn't start the fire. Anderson left a cigarette on that stack of reports and then he got distracted helping me and - ."

"You burned up a month of Lard's reports?" Greg shook his head.

"Kinda. Sorta. Yeah." Anderson stopped stomping and looked down at the charred fragments of paper under his boots.

"Thank God. Then I won't have to read them," Greg said. "Just tell me you've fixed that thing." He pointed at the scrambler, which had started to make a knocking noise. Everyone took a cautious step back.

"Um . . ." Casey said.

"Well . . ." Anderson added.

"You've been on it all day and it still won't work?"

"Yeah, well, you see, here's the thing . . ." Casey began.

"The only thing I see is Lard landing on our airstrip and being a pain in my ass. What's the problem?"

"I don't know," Casey finally admitted. He waved his hands in frustration. "All the parts are in the right places. I've replaced the broken pieces and repaired what I couldn't replace and –"

"I reminded him if he took a piece out, he had to put it back in," Hutch interjected helpfully. Casey glared at him before he continued.

"- and double-checked the wiring diagrams and cross-checked everything with the specs in the manual. It just won't . . . work. I have no idea why."

Kate flipped the switch off and the machine powered down with a groan. She knelt by the outlet where the scrambler was plugged into the power line from the generator. She wrenched the plug loose.

"Observe." She held it aloft and counted to 10, then plugged it back in. "Try it now."

Casey looked skeptical. Anderson's fingers flexed on the fire extinguisher as Casey flipped the toggle. There was a moment of silence, then the unit powered to life, humming quietly. On the console, a series of green lights chased in quick succession, then settled to a steady glow. The power, range, reception and channel indicator needles surged to the right before falling into normal ranges.

"And that, gentlemen, is exactly how it works." Kate rose and dusted off her hands. She looked at Greg, winked and walked out.

"Did she just . . .?" Casey was open mouthed.

"Yeah." Anderson shook his head. "She unplugged it and plugged it back in. And now it's fine."

Greg chuckled and scratched his head.

"If you want something done right, get a woman to do it," he muttered. He looked at his watch. "Nothing personal, but I've got better things to do than stand around here with you boys all night." He started to leave, then turned back over his shoulder. "Ellen and Dee said to tell you they'd started a bar tab in your names. Those girls are generous, I think they were buying drinks for everyone."

Casey and Anderson looked at each other.

"Oh hell no," Anderson muttered. "I love that girl but that isn't the way it works, that isn't the way it works at all!"

They bolted out the door.

Standing in the middle of the now deserted com shack, Victoria took Hutch's arm. She glanced at the scrambler, which was humming contentedly.

"So, they finally fixed it." Her mouth curved softly as she met his eyes. "What happens now?"

He reached out and flipped off the light switch, plunging the room into shadow, then pulled her gently into his arms.

"Let me show you," he said quietly, "how it works."

 **THE END**


End file.
